


September 2016

by babybrotherdean



Series: 365 Challenge: 2016 [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 12,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: Collection of 365 ficlets for the month of September.





	1. Two-Hundred Forty-Five: Wanderlust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They hit the road in the early morning, the colours of a pastel sunrise illuminating the empty road ahead of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From ivanprovorov: "SamJess + Wanderlust"

They hit the road in the early morning, the colours of a pastel sunrise illuminating the empty road ahead of them. A couple bags in the trunk, a fistful of cash to keep them fed for a week or two, and an impulsive, irresistible  _need_ to go.

Sam had thought he’d been doing pretty well, those first couple years. Never been stationary a day in his life, and here he was with a bed to call his own and a key to a mailbox. Everything he thought he was never going to have, and it only got better after meeting Jessica. A best friend and an ear to listen and someone who almost entirely filled the hole he’d torn in his own chest running away in the first place.

(She doesn’t fill it completely, but she’s  _more_ , too. She’s her own sort of wonderful.)

Two years of something stationary and normal and  _safe_ , and.

“You ever thought about taking a roadtrip?”

And Jessica puts the idea in his head and there isn’t a single bone in his body that doesn’t want to leave.

And now- now here they are. Jessica’s car, but Sam’s got the first shift ‘cause he’s used to drives like this and his girlfriend is still sleepy, half-dozing against the passenger’s side window. There’s something distinctly backwards about the image that he does his best to ignore every time he sneaks a glance her way, because as much as he enjoys watching the empty stretch of highway ahead, he has a hard time tearing his eyes away from Jessica.

Lips parted, eyes closed. She’s curled in on herself a little bit; soft waves of blonde half-concealing her face and casting it in a touch of shadow. The sunrise warms the edges and Sam needs to bite his lip, dragging his eyes back to the road. He’s sure he could stare for hours.

They’ve got a full tank of gas, two weeks off of classes, and no real destination in mind. Two years of safety and this- this half-cocked plan to spend some time on the road like it’s just another vacation- this is the closest he’s felt to  _home_ since he left.

Might as well make the most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	2. Two-Hundred Forty-Six: Knitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mary starts knitting, it’s because she needs something to do with her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary and baby Dean and just. Soft.

When Mary starts knitting, it’s because she needs something to do with her hands. Hands trained to fight and to kill, and hands that are never going to do that again- hands that need to learn to be gentler and softer for the little life growing in her belly. She starts to knit because John’s mother wants to teach her, and because it gives her something to do during all those hours she’s forced to spend resting. 

That’s why she starts knitting. Dozens of scarves and little socks and even a few hats, when she starts to get more ambitious. Poor John doesn’t seem to know what to do with them all, and starts to joke that the baby won’t need a crib if they just build them a nest out of woolen clothes. She still doesn’t stop, though- it’s sort of addicting, and it calms the part of her that needs to be active and alert, even so many years after leaving the hunting world.

When Dean’s born, though- as he starts to grow up and become more aware of the world- she gets a whole new reason to continue, entirely separate from the little winter wardrobe she’s started to compile for him.

He’ll just watch her, mostly. For hours; completely content with the world and eyes all big and awed while he watches her work. She’ll sit in her rocking chair and he’ll peek out at her through the bars of his crib, or when he grows out of it, from where he’s sprawled out on his own bed, little hands gripping the sheets like they’ll try to get away from him.

She knits because Dean loves to watch. He starts to climb into her lap, sometimes, too, grabby little fingers gripping the needles with wonder. “Soft,” he’ll tell her, all soft and serious, and she can only smile and hold him and continue to work.

Knitting is a thousand miles away from hunting. The needles are sharp, sure, and perhaps in some fantasy novel, their wooden length would do some good against a garlic-fearing vampire, but they aren’t intended for hurt. They’re smooth and delicate and sort of beautiful, she thinks, and her little boy can’t seem to get enough of the practice as a whole. It’s sort of pure, and sort of gentle, and she doesn’t stop when she gets pregnant again.

Knitting is nice. Knitting makes her feel sort of normal, even if they’ll be buried in oversized scarves for the rest of forever. It’s an easy trade-off to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	3. Two-Hundred Forty-Seven: Another Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving in isn’t really anything special for Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Stanford thing.

Moving in isn’t really anything special for Sam. He’s moved hundreds of times in his life; maybe thousands. He’s long gotten over the novelty of seeing a new place with new things that really just drum up to another room in a long line of the same. Somewhere to rest his head and somewhere to put his things and not a whole lot else.

Moving to Palo Alto doesn’t feel a whole lot different. He doesn’t think it should, anyways; it’s impossible to miss the excitement and anxiety coming off every other student in his building as their parents and siblings help them get settled. Sam smiles politely and keeps to himself and drops his duffle by the foot of his bed, and the rest is just. Waiting.

It’s just another room, now. A warmer room, and a room surrounded by people with whom he’d like to get along, but just another room, all the same. 

An emptier one. One without familiarity and family and a sense of freckle-faced  _home_ , but.

He curls his fingers tight into the bed sheets and he closes his eyes and he. Breathes.

Just another room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	4. Two-Hundred Forty-Eight: Sneaky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s hard to pretend he doesn’t notice, between the giggling and the way they keep shushing each other, but John bites back his smile and keeps his back turned, pretending to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny thing with Weechesters being sneaky and John definitely not noticing at all.

It’s hard to pretend he doesn’t notice, between the giggling and the way they keep shushing each other, but John bites back his smile and keeps his back turned, pretending to sleep.

“You gotta be quiet, Sammy,” Dean’s voice whispers, and John breathes out an inaudible laugh. “Don’t wanna wake Dad.”

The two of them are huddled up under the covers in the bed they share, illuminated by an old flashlight that silhouettes their two hunched forms. John had snuck a couple glances while they were distracted getting settled, and now he’s more than a little amused listening as they try to be sneaky about staying up so late on a school night.

“You gotta show the pictures, though,” Sammy whispers back, a little too loud and very insistent. “I wanna see!”

“Hold on.” Some rustling around, another giggle from Sammy, and then a huff from Dean. “There. S’that good?”

“Yeah!”

They quiet down a little more, then, and Dean clears his throat gently before he starts speaking. “Goodnight, moon. In the big green room…”

It’s a book that John knows forwards and back, and one that Dean could probably recite by heart after all the times he’s read it for his little brother. It’s endearing, the way he hauls around the battered old thing, and John smiles to himself, soft and sad. It’d come from a thrift store, but neither of the boys have ever seemed to care that it’s where they get all their things now. They’ve always been content with just having each other.

“Goodnight, moon,” Dean finishes up, and John mouths the words with him, closing his eyes while he listens to his boys get settled. They’re quiet after that, and it isn’t long before their breathing goes soft and even.

John takes a deep breath and tries to relax. This isn’t what they deserve, but it’s the best he can do for them right now, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be good enough to deserve the way they smile at him some days.

Doesn’t think a damn thing in the world is good enough for his boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	5. Two-Hundred Forty-Nine: Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re fucking with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG WARNING. Non-con and. Stuff. Idk. This spawned from all the people who were all "DEAN LITERALLY LET A SUPERNATURAL CREATURE RAPE HIS BROTHER" and. uh. I don't know what else to say about it.

“You’re fucking with me.”

An unfortunate choice of words, maybe, but silence is his only answer. Dean stares, and he stares, and he feels like he’s going to be sick.

“You’re… not fucking with me.”

Ezekiel’s expression doesn’t change, and the pit in Dean’s stomach grows deeper. “It is the only way to heal your brother, Dean. A complete melding of both the soul and the physical body will allow me to-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Dean cuts him off because he doesn’t think he can bear to hear it a second time. They’re still in the damn hotel room, but they’re running out of time; God knows how many angels are closing in on the building as they speak, and Sam needs help if he’s going to make it much longer. The sigils will hold for a time, but Dean suspects that the human doctors won’t let those deter them. “Cut to the chase.”

A slight knitting of the angel’s brow is the only indication of his confusion. “I have told you all there is to know. If I do not heal your brother, and you do not find another angel to do the same, then he will die. I came here because I want to help. My brothers and sisters will not likely be as generous.”

It should sound haughty, but there’s a grave sort of solemnity to Ezekiel that negates it. Dean’s just left with that empty, tight feeling in his stomach that tells him he has no more options.

Sam looks small in the hotel bed. Impossibly small next to the machines keeping him alive, all pale-skinned and bruised where it hurts. Dean swallows hard as he watches his little brother quietly fight for his life, and he doesn’t look at Ezekiel when he speaks. Can’t tear his eyes away from Sam.

“Not here.”

The angels outside are breaking down doors. Humans are shouting, panicked and afraid.

They move.

-

Sam is still unconscious when they finally make it home, and as wrong as it feels to allow a stranger into the bunker- an angel, at that- Dean knows it’s the only way. Still, he insists on carrying his little brother all by himself, even if Sam’s long past the size of being easy to haul around and Dean’s shoulders are screaming by the time they make it to one of the guest rooms.

He doesn’t take Ezekiel to either of their bedrooms. There’s only so far he’ll allow this to go.

“I will be… careful,” Ezekiel says, breaking the too-long silence that’s been hanging between them. Dean ignores him because it’s the only way he’ll be able to hang onto his sanity past this point. He just focuses on his brother for now; on taking those last few steps towards the bed until he’s able to lay Sam down. He doesn’t look much better than he did in the hospital, and Dean struggles to look away. It feels like a moment too long will leave him glancing back to find that Sam’s stopped breathing altogether.

“This is the only way?” he asks, eyes hard where Sam’s chest rises and falls, faint and weakening. “There ain’t some back-alley loophole you’re not tellin’ me about?”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Ezekiel hasn’t moved from his spot by the door, but he might as well be whispering them right into Dean’s ear for how deep they sink. “His wounds are too severe. His soul has been damaged, and there is no other way to repair that damage.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut as if Sam’s near-lifeless body isn’t already burned into the backs of his eyelids. He forces himself to take a deep breath and weigh his options.

Then again,  _Sam dies_ was never really an option to begin with.

He doesn’t look, and he can barely force the words from his lips. His eyes are closed and he’s trembling. Whispers. 

“Do it.”

The angel stays quiet, but there’s the distinct rustling of clothes and the creak of floorboards as he approaches the bed. A moment of hesitation, and he speaks again, soft. Closer to Dean.

“You can… stay, if you feel it necessary.”

As if there was ever another way for this to go.

Dean forces himself to open his eyes by the time the bed’s springs squeak with added weight. No matter how bad it’s going to ruin him to watch this- to watch his brother violated in the more carnal way- there’s no speaking for how much it will hurt Sam. He can only pray that his brother will have no memory of this, because if he does-

Dean’s been forgiven for a lot of shit that should’ve marked him irredeemable, but he doesn’t doubt for a moment that he’d never see Sam again if this goes the wrong way. He convinces himself, once again, that it’s better than Sam being dead. Anything is better than that.

 _Anything_ , he tells himself a million times in the space of time it takes Ezekiel to open up Sam’s hospital gown and expose him to the room’s cold light. He’s too skinny, and his ribs are bruised, and he’s soft and vulnerable and  _small_ and.

Anything. Anything is better.  _Anything._

Dean’s not sure whether it’s better or worse, seeing the clinical way Ezekiel goes about it. Gets his own clothes out of the way efficiently, no passion lost between them; it’s a job to him, a procedure, and Dean thinks maybe he’s going to throw up by the time this is over.

He doesn’t know where Ezekiel got the oil he produces- looks like it might’ve been lifted from the hospital, in hindsight- but a tiny part of him is thankful. Dean’s eyes drift up to his brother’s face because it’s the only spot he can bear to look at, knowing what’s happening down below. Sam’s out cold; his expression doesn’t change once even with the unmistakable squelch of lube as Ezekiel begins. At least he isn’t in pain.

Anything. Anything, anything,  _anything._

Minutes pass. Maybe hours; maybe years. There’s the liquid sound of Ezekiel’s fingers and there’s Sam’s face, and there’s Dean, a silent observer to something that shouldn’t be happening in the first place. There’s the angel blade that sits heavy inside his jacket, tucked away where it always is, these days, because everyone is an enemy and there’s no such thing as being too prepared.

An angel is violating his brother and Dean tries. He tries so  _damn_ hard to tell himself that this is the only thing they can do. The only choice he can make for things to be okay again, and.

And then he decides that  _nothing_ is okay about this. That anything is a better choice than Sam dying- anything but. But  _this._

There’s no thought in the space between his hand and the blade’s hilt. Ezekiel’s silent and he’s barely moved forward for the tip of his vessel’s cock to find Sam the way it’s supposed to, and. 

And he dies quietly, too. Quiet as angels ever do. The blade goes in and light spills out, and Dean doesn’t close his eyes because he needs to watch. It doesn’t last long, and then the angel is dead and he and Sam are.

Alone.

So fucking alone.

-

Sam wakes slowly to the purr of the only engine he’s ever known and a headache so immense that he’s sure his head is going to split in two. He’s groggy and disoriented, fingers curling uselessly in his lap as he struggles to open his eyes. All he can remember is trying to finish up that last trial, talking with Crowley and then- Dean, and-

And nothing else. He doesn’t know where he is.

“Dean?” he mumbles anyways, because he knows the passenger’s seat better than he knows his own mind and there’s no question that his brother is opposite him. He doesn’t get a response, but he does manage to force his eyes open only to be left squinting in the light of a vibrant, bloody sunset. He finds Dean right where he belongs, all hard lines and sharp edges and a bittersweet sort of look on his face. “S’wrong? Where are we?”

Dean looks at him eventually, one hand on the steering wheel and the other loose on the seat between them. For a long moment, they’re both silent, and Dean just looks at him. Doesn’t explain why Sam feels like he’s physically coming apart at the seams, or why his heart is beating too fast or where they’re going or what happened. He just- he just  _looks_ , and then he’s smiling again, so profoundly  _sad_ in the expression that Sam doesn’t have a damn thing to say.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Sammy. We’re goin’ home.”

There’s a heaviness to the words for which Sam has no explanation, so he stays quiet and doesn’t resist when Dean’s hand finds his. It’s a sort of comfort that he hasn’t had since childhood and it quiets the pain, just a little bit.

He doesn’t know where they’re going, or why his body feels like it’s slowly shutting down. He doesn’t ask, either, because he trusts his big brother and he knows that whatever else happens, Dean’s going to do his best to make things okay. It’s a knowledge he’s been secure in since the day their house burned to the ground, and nothing has changed since then. Nothing so vital as his brother’s devotion to keeping him safe.

Safety takes them right through a steel guardrail and comes with a fifty-foot drop into the ocean. The water’s pretty with the last lingering fingers of daylight, and even as it starts to fill the car, Dean’s hand clutching tightly at Sam’s keeps him warm.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Dean whispers, and Sam feels like sleep is calling him all over again. “Gonna be okay, little brother.”

 _Home_ was always by his brother’s side, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	6. Two-Hundred Fifty: Baby Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The baby’s just tiny, and Dean knows, as he strokes careful fingertips over his new little brother’s chubby cheek, that he’s gotta be gentle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and his new baby brother. ;-;

The baby’s just tiny, and Dean knows, as he strokes careful fingertips over his new little brother’s chubby cheek, that he’s gotta be gentle. Real gentle, just like how his momma showed him. Sammy’s extra delicate, and if Dean wants to play with him,then he’s gotta learn how to play nice and careful.

Sammy’s not much good for playing, yet, really, but he’s soft and cute and makes little gurgling sounds whenever he reaches for Dean. He reaches for Dean a lot, and Dean decides that he likes that. He does his best to be close whenever Sammy reaches for him, ‘cause he wants to be a good big brother, and good big brothers are there when their little brothers need them.

“You can go to sleep now, sweetheart,” his momma tells him all soft when he’s sitting by Sammy’s crib, just watching. Dean’s sleepy, sure, but Sammy’s no good at sleeping through the night yet and Dean’s gotta be here, just in case. “Sammy’s okay for now.”

“What if he needs me?” Dean asks, his eyes still intent on the baby in the crib. “He can’t come get me, so I gotta be close.”

She laughs like wind chimes, and then Dean’s getting scooped up in her arms and cradled close. With his momma’s heartbeat nearby and the warm security of being held, his eyelids start to droop for real. “He’ll be okay, baby. You need to get some rest.”

Dean doesn’t have it in him to fight that, so he yawns and curls close to her and takes one last peek at Sammy. He waves at his brother ‘cause it’s the polite thing to do, and lets himself be carried back to his room.

“Night, Sammy,” he whispers. Maybe he can take care of his little brother even if he’s asleep. It’s sure worth a try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	7. Two-Hundred Fifty-One: Bedtime Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam knows he should’ve been asleep thirty minutes ago, and that his brother won’t be happy with him if he figures out that it isn’t the case, but he can’t help himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleepy boys.

Sam knows he should’ve been asleep thirty minutes ago, and that his brother won’t be happy with him if he figures out that it isn’t the case, but he can’t help himself. Recently, he’s worked himself into the habit of clinging to consciousness all the way up until Dean himself goes to bed, because there’s always something good and soft and special waiting for him if he can stick to it for long enough.

Dean hums. Sam doesn’t think he ever thinks about it or does it consciously, and there’s no doubt in his mind that he’d stop if Sam were to ever point it out to him, but it’s- it’s nice. He never quite crosses the line into singing, but whenever he’s getting the motel room ready for the both of them to rest safely, redrawing salt lines and locking doors and turning off lights, he just. He hums.

Sam doesn’t always recognize the tune. Sometimes, he’s sure that Dean’s come up with them all on his own. But it’s soft, and it’s gentle, and Sam knows, as surely as he knows that monsters are real, that it’s just for him.

So he keeps his eyes closed and his body curled around his pillow, and he listens. He listens to his brother shuffling around the room and going through his routine, and when he’s really lucky, he listens to Dean’s humming. Listens to it right up until his brother’s finished and ready to go to bed himself, and that’s Sam’s favourite part of the night, he thinks.

After he’s done humming, Dean will always, without fail, stop beside Sam’s bed. He’ll be quiet for a moment, and Sam will be careful to regulate his own breathing and keep his eyes shut and stay perfectly still, because after that moment passes- that’s when Dean leans in close and there’s the faint, dry brush of lips against Sam’s forehead. Something careful and something rare; the sort of affection his brother never shows in the light of day.

“Night, Sammy,” he’ll whisper against Sam’s skin, and Sam always has to fight off his own shivers. “Sweet dreams, little brother.”

Sam listens for Dean getting into bed, too. He listens, because Dean does so damn much to take care of him, and it’s the least he can do to make sure his big brother makes it to bed safe and sound. He likes falling asleep together, anyways, because Dean’s breathing slowing down and going quiet gives Sam just the excuse he needs to do the same, and it’s.

It’s their routine, whether Dean knows it or not. Sam doesn’t want to change a single thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	8. Two-Hundred Fifty-Two: Motherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With motherhood, Mary expects to acquire a sort of softness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm emotional about Mary, and this. I still love this piece a lot.

With motherhood, Mary expects to acquire a sort of softness. It’s something that she’s struggled with since leaving hunting behind; she isn’t comfortable the way she should be with the cooing and congratulations directed towards her rounded belly, and she can’t quite settle at John’s side to play the perfect wife the way she wants to. Still, she tries; she’s sure that it will become easier with time, or that perhaps once her child is a real, tangible presence in her arms, it will come to her more naturally.

Dean comes into the world tiny and perfect, a little earlier than expected but healthy as can be, and Mary holds him in her arms, and she feels-

She feels everything but soft.

There is a brand-new little life cradled against her chest, small and vulnerable and scared; barely so much as able to cling to her in an instinctive search for protection. There’s this delicate, blanket-swaddled, immeasurably  _important_ thing in her arms and Mary feels everything but soft.

Mary feels fierce. She feels violent; like there’s a feral animal locked somewhere in the back of her mind, ready to strike at the first sign of threat. She feels powerful, and she feels fearless, and she feels savage. She feels as though every ounce of quiet and tame in her body has become a thin facade, because if  _anything_ endangers her little boy-

She was wrong, all these years, she thinks as she holds Dean a little closer. Motherhood doesn’t make a woman soft, and it certainly doesn’t make a woman weak.

Motherhood makes a woman dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	9. Two-Hundred Fifty-Three: Needy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is a needy baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just. I love Mary and baby Dean.

Dean is a needy baby. Not that’s he’s any more or less demanding than any other children- not as far as Mary knows, anyways. It’s not so much that he  _needs_ in general as it is that he needs  _her_. He needs her, and he needs his father, the way a starving man needs a good steak dinner.

He clings, and he trails around behind them as best he can when he’s given the opportunity. He fusses when they’re not close enough to touch and he cries the first couple times she tries to let him sleep on his own. He becomes a permanent part of their sleep routine because he can’t sleep by himself and neither Mary nor John can sleep when he’s upset, and it works. It works for them.

Dean holds on tight and Mary loves him so much more for that. He needs her so entirely, so  _fiercely_ , and it’s a different sort of need than she’s ever known before. He needs her to hold him, and sing to him, and gather him up close in her arms when it’s time for bed. He just needs the closeness and the presence and it’s as wonderful to her as it is endearing.

“He’ll be fine for one night,” John will tell her sometimes, and Mary thinks that he worries about her too much. “You can take a break. It’s alright.”

But Dean is her little boy, and Dean needs her there. Maybe he’s too dependant, and maybe it’s too early to tell, but under no circumstances will she purposefully, knowingly leave him. He needs her, and she isn’t going to take away his comfort like that. Not while it’s within her power to prevent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	10. Two-Hundred Fifty-Four: Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re at the park, and the sun is out, and the boys are playing just like they’re supposed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weechesters with Mom at the park.

They’re at the park, and the sun is out, and the boys are playing just like they’re supposed to. It’s quiet and calm and safe, and everything that Mary never used to have.

It’s a little less so when Sammy runs to her, crying, and she’s up off her peaceful little bench in a heartbeat, scooping her youngest up off his feet as his brother toddles in after him, eyes wide and alarmed and already stumbling to explain what’s happened.

“Sammy fell!” Dean tells her anxiously, getting in close and clinging to her skirts while he tries to get a peek at his brother. “An’ he hurt his knee!”

Sammy’s sniffling and wiping at his face, all curled up against Mary’s chest where she’s got him cradled. “Oh, baby,” she says softly while she tries to unfurl him from his ball. “Let Mommy see.”

As promised, when she gets a glimpse of Sammy’s knee, he’s gotten it all scraped up. Not a deep wound, but a painful one, and she makes a gentle sound of sympathy before peeking up at his tear-streaked face and smiles. “I think I know just the thing.” 

She shifts Sammy in her arms until she can lean in and press a kiss to his knee, waiting for the tentative little giggle before smiling again. “Hm? What’s that?” A couple more kisses, and she gets a stronger reaction as he squirms closer to her, little peals of laughter escaping him. “Is someone ticklish?”

She hugs him close and blows a raspberry against his belly, and Dean starts laughing, too, stretching up on his tip-toes to reach for his brother. “I think he is!” One more kiss, among soft chestnut hair, and she pulls back a bit, still holding her little boy close and letting the sound of his laughter settle over her, soft and warm. “All better?”

Sammy looks up at her when he catches his breath, and his smile puts the sunshine to shame. “Yeah!” He leans up and wraps his arms around her neck and hugs her tight, and Mary squeezes him back, soaking in the moment for what it is. “Thanks, Momma.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Mary sets him back down on his feet and make sure he’s steady before letting him go, and in no time, both of her boys are running off again, laughing and chasing each other while she watches. She’s left smiling to herself, slowly sitting back down on her bench and breathing out slowly.

These aren’t the kind of crises she was raised to prepare for, but she likes these ones a whole lot better. Hugs and kisses go a long way in this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	11. Two-Hundred Fifty-Five: Fierce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John remembers the day that Dean was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John loves his baby boy a whole lot. ;-;

John remembers the day that Dean was born. He’d been several weeks premature; he and Mary had both spent days without sleep as they took turns watching over him in the incubation room at the hospital. How tiny he’d been, and how John hadn’t been able to hold his baby boy for the first week of his life. Didn’t know whether or not he was going to survive and could only touch him sparingly; gentle like he’d been spun from glass. Doctors had spent the entire time preparing them, talking in what-ifs and just-in-cases as if they hadn’t already fallen in love with their newborn. As if they’d be able to go on, had Dean not survived. 

Dean’s too old for John to hold in his arms, now, but that doesn’t stop him from gathering his son close to his chest while he fights to keep him alive all over again.

It’s not a bout of bad luck and poor circumstances that’s got him fighting, now; just some fucking black dog in the middle of some godforsaken forest, deep in the wilderness of Minnesota. Just another hunt gone a little too sideways and suddenly his little boy is bleeding out in his arms, barely conscious while he tries to keep his insides on the inside, and John.

John feels like his heart’s going to tear in two, because this isn’t fair. It isn’t fair for Dean to have to fight like this, and for the world to be so entirely against him. Not his beautiful baby boy, soft and kind and  _good_ right from the start and so much like his mother that he  _can’t_ -

He can’t lose Dean. He’s lost everyone else- lost  _everything_ he’s ever had, everything he never asked for and everything he’ll never have again- and God; he can’t lose his little boy. 

His hands are slippery with his son’s blood but he holds Dean close, anyways; tucks Dean’s head under his chin and closes his eyes tight and shudders out something like a breath. Something that’s almost a prayer.

“Please,” he whispers, and he’s got one hand on Dean’s chest where his heart’s struggling to keep on beating, pressing in hard like it’ll ease the pain. “Not him.”

John is not a religious man, but he does not hesitate to pray.

He won’t lose Dean. He  _won’t_. Not after Dean fought so hard to be here in the first place.

“M’sorry,” Dean slurs against his chest, and John’s grip just tightens, protective and angry and fierce. 

Fuck the rest of the world. He won’t let them take his boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	12. Two-Hundred Fifty-Six: Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes one year of friendship and an additional four months of dating before Jessica catches Sam asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love SamJess with my entire heart.

It takes one year of friendship and an additional four months of dating before Jessica catches Sam asleep.

It’s not that they’ve never slept together. She sleeps best right next to him, actually, all tucked up against his side with her cheek on his chest and his breath rustling her hair; it’s just that she’s never actually seen Sam  _sleeping._ He rises early and stays up late, and for a little while, a tiny part of her wonders if he ever sleeps at all. It would certainly explain the dark circles that seem to be a permanent fixture under his eyes, and the way he’ll sometimes get anxious right when it’s time to go to bed. She’s learned to give him time alone, then, when he needs it.

But it’s early in the morning and they’re just getting into October now, so the air’s chilly and the last thing that Jessica wants to do is get out of bed. It’s a weekend, thankfully, with no academic obligations to attend to, so she sighs softly and snuggles back down in bed, parting her lips to ask Sam how he slept, but.

But he’s… still sleeping.

Jessica holds her breath for a few seconds, afraid to disturb him and break this little spell of peacefulness, but for the moment… he’s calm. His breathing is even and soft, lips parted, face turned towards her where his head rests on the pillow. His arm still cradles her close but his fingers are loosely curled in unconsciousness, and for an endless little moment, all she can do is stare.

Sam’s beautiful, when he’s sleeping. Not that he ever  _isn’t_ beautiful, but this is a very soft and quiet sort of beauty; a sunrise in the dead of winter or stargazing out where the city lights don’t reach. He’s relaxed in a way he never is while he’s awake, some half-remembered tension to his features like he’s just come home from a war. Jessica doesn’t ask too many questions- learned early on that they make Sam skittish and withdrawn- but seeing him now, it’s hard not to wonder what so hardened the boy laying beside her. 

There’s no telling how much time will pass before Sam starts to wake up, so Jessica takes the chance while it’s available to her and reaches up, slow and careful, to brush her fingertips over his face. The cut of his cheekbones, the long slope of his nose, the petal-softness of his lips. She holds her breath and takes in everything there is to him, from the smoothness of his brow to the rise and fall of his chest, and she can’t help but crack a tiny smile.

She didn’t really believe in love before Sam Winchester, but the tight feeling in her chest that tells her to hold him close and keep him safe- she thinks this must be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	13. Two-Hundred Fifty-Seven: Banshee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a banshee that does it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of deaf!Dean because it was living in my drafts.

It’s a banshee that does it. Damn things spend all their time screaming and it never occurred to Dean how bad that could hurt. They’ve got it cornered and he’s just about to go in for the kill, but it’s fucking  _strong_ and tosses him across the room. He’s on his feet in seconds, but not soon enough to stop it from screaming straight in Sam’s face; the sort of volume he expects from jet engines and not a whole lot else. He manages to get the shot off and take it down but Sam’s already on the ground, clutching his head, and Dean doesn’t even hear his gun go off.

“Sam,” he says, except it’s less like speaking and more like his throat makes some little vibrations in time with the movements of his lips, ‘cause he can’t hear a damn thing and his ears are ringing the way they never really have before. It’s hard to stagger over towards his brother with his head all thrown off, but he manages. “Sam.”

There’s blood coming out of Sam’s ears and Dean assumes the worst, but Sam’s sitting up a moment later, blinking hard and looking up at him all lost and confused. He manages to get to his feet with Dean’s help and then they’re just holding each other, the shaky, post-hunt pat-down that’s become habit over the years. Neither of them are speaking, Dean thinks, but Sam’s mouth opens sometimes and tries to shape itself around a few words. Dean’s hands skim his brother’s arms, his chest, his head- they come away bloody and he swallows thickly. Tries not to think too hard about the implications of it all.

Their hands find each other and their fingers tangle together, and Dean glances over towards the banshee’s corpse. Dead and gone and due to be burned, and when he glances at Sam- Sam’s already nodding; a sort of tacit understanding passing between them without words needing to be said.

The ringing is starting to fade, but barely. There’s a little hint of  _empty_ beyond the forms it’s tracing out inside Dean’s head, but he’s good at ignoring things he doesn’t want to address, so he digs the lighter out of his pocket and doesn’t let go of Sam the whole time they arrange the body to be burned. It goes up in foul smoke and they both stay quiet, no real acknowledgement of what might’ve just happened in between them.

They’ve always spoken more through looks and touches than words, anyways. It’s best not to worry about the worst case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	14. Two-Hundred Fifty-Eight: Humming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam always gets shy when Jessica catches him humming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A soft and angsty SamJess.

Sam always gets shy when Jessica catches him humming. He’s doing it more often now; ever since the test came back positive and gave them the news they’d been waiting for, he’s been in a sort of high-spirited daze. Wanders around the house with a soft smile on his face and a warm look about him and touches her whenever he can, hands all big and gentle on her arms, her shoulders, and- more recently- her ever-growing belly.

And he’s  _humming_. Never used to be much of a musical person but it must be the prospect of fatherhood that’s brought it out in him, because he’ll come home from work and he’ll give her a kiss and he’ll wander off to get changed humming whatever tune he’s got in his head. It’s endearing, and Jess can never keep the smile off her face when she hears him.

He hums for her mostly when they’re falling asleep. He’ll curl up near her middle and stroke careful fingertips over the curve of her belly, and he’ll hum. Sometimes tunes she recognizes, sometimes ones she doesn’t. Some of them catch her off-guard- Metallica, she knows distantly; AC/DC; even Bon Jovi- and then some of them surprise her more than others. More than the mullet rock, even.

“I didn’t know you liked the Beatles.” She’s stroking his hair, both of them quiet and sleep-soft, and he stops, glancing up at her with a look she doesn’t know how to read. She already misses the tune, so she tries to smile. “Hey, I didn’t say stop. He likes your voice.”

“You don’t know it’s a boy,” Sam murmurs, just like he always does, but his eyes return to her belly and he’s quiet for a moment as his hand settles atop it gently, fingers spreading wide. “I don’t, I guess. Just, uh… just the one song I know from somewhere.”

Another moment of midnight-silence between them, but then Sam starts up again, a little more tentative than before. Jessica her hand in his hair and soon enough, he gains some strength with it, and- to her surprise and pleasure- he starts to sing.

“Hey, Jude, don’t make it bad.” His voice is a little scratchy the way it’s low and soft, and she loves him all the more for it as he continues. “Take a sad song, and make it better…”

Just a song he knows. Jessica watches the man she loves as he sings to their growing child, and she wonders once more about everything he hasn’t told her. She wonders if their little boy will ask questions about his father’s past, and if Sam will ever have an answer.

She wonders if Sam’s started to think of names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	15. Two-Hundred Fifty-Nine: Ironic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn’t mean to visit Palo Alto nearly as often as he does, but as disastrous as their last conversation had been, he can’t deny that he wants Sam to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John checks in on Sam.

John doesn’t mean to visit Palo Alto nearly as often as he does, but as disastrous as their last conversation had been, he can’t deny that he wants Sam to be happy. He never wanted this life for his boys, and knowing that Sam got out- as scary as it is, it settles something in him, too. Sets him at rest in a way he never thought to seek out.

Dean will work a straightforward case on his own, and John will visit Stanford. It becomes a routine, albeit one of which neither of his sons are aware, and it works for him. Works just how it’s supposed to right up until the day Sam meets a girl.

For the first few seconds, John swears he’s seeing a ghost.

It’s some little coffee shop on campus, a favourite of Sam’s if such a thing might be judged by the frequency of his visits. This isn’t the first time he’s had someone else with him, but it’s the first time he’s held hands with anyone and certainly the first time they so startling resembled Mary.

It’s uncanny, from this distance- the blond hair, the way her eyes crinkle up when she smiles; on further observation, they even have similar mannerisms and it’s…

John doesn’t know what it is, really. It twists up his heart in ways he doesn’t like and it makes it impossible to leave, because if he squints, he can almost pretend it’s her.

He watches the two of them together for far longer than he should, and when he finally drives away, he can’t help but wonder to himself whether or not Sam sees the resemblance.

John doesn’t think there’s a right answer to that question, and when her death sends Sam careening back into the world of hunting-

The world is full of little ironies, and John has never hated it more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	16. Two-Hundred Sixty: Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Only an idiot would go after Lilith half-cocked,” Ruby snaps at him, and Sam doesn’t so much as look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a quote from a movie: "You seek revenge?" / "I seek righteousness. But I'll take revenge."

“Only an idiot would go after Lilith half-cocked,” Ruby snaps at him, and Sam doesn’t so much as look up. She’s on her feet and she’s yelling at him and he’s sitting, perched on the edge of the bed with his eyes on the gun in his hands. Stripping and cleaning like he was taught as a kid. “And I know you’re not stupid. So what the hell, Sam? You’re not ready for her!”

Sam just shrugs. He’s felt empty for weeks now in a way he hasn’t known since all those fucking Tuesdays, and the threat rings hollow just like everything else. “So?”

“What, so you want to die?” she demands, and that’s when he looks up, taking in her agitated stance, the frustrated look to her. A small part of him wonders why she’s so damn invested in this, but it’s a question for another time.

“I want to kill Lilith,” he replies evenly. “That’s all that matters. If I die- well, then I’ll be dead. The end.”

“And that’s it?” Ruby snorts and turns away sharply, shaking her head. “Dean’s dead, and now you’re just giving up?”

Sam goes tense at the words and thinks that her knife isn’t far. Thinks maybe he could reach it, if he tried, and just end her then and there. “I’m not giving up. If I die, I’m bringing her with me.”

It’s quiet for a moment and Sam looks down at his gun once more. Just needs to piece it back together now and he starts on that while Ruby shifts around. 

“You want revenge.”

It’s not really a question, and Sam really doesn’t need to answer.

He slips the last piece of the weapon back into place and gives one, anyways.

“I want righteousness.” 

He wants his brother alive. He wants Dean back by his side, smiling, joking, fighting. Being here. Being his brother. Being everything that Sam ever wanted or needed or looked up to. Everything that ever composed the entirety of his world. He wants the void of his chest to fill and he wants this hunt for Lilith to be over, once and for all.

He wants  _Dean._

Slides the clip into place and flicks at the safety, breathes out slow. It’s never really mattered what he wants.

He doesn’t see Ruby smile, but he hears the laugh she breathes out and tightens his grip on the handle.

“But I’ll take revenge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	17. Two-Hundred Sixty-One: Polaroid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets his first Polaroid camera for his fourteenth birthday, a gift from his big brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets a camera.

Sam gets his first Polaroid camera for his fourteenth birthday, a gift from his big brother. The very same big brother who becomes the subject of his first photo; a little embarrassed, and a little caught off-guard, and a lot grumbly when he realizes what’s just happened- but Sam can’t wipe the smile off his face as the photo prints and he’s left with a small, immortalized moment in the palm of his hand.

“S'just a camera,” Dean mumbles when Sam gives him a hug, but he’s hugging back just as tight and Sam knows how much thought when into the gift.

He’s sparing with his film because because there’s only so much he can carry, and only so much they can afford to spend on silly hobbies like his, so every picture is special. He keeps them close and he keeps them safe, each an indescribably important memento of what’s become a tragically unrecorded life.

Dean ends up in his photos a lot. Dean’s the constant; he’s always been a fixture in Sam’s life, and Sam suspects that he always will be. So he gets his brother smiling, or laughing, or when he’s sleepy-soft and looking at Sam that was no one else ever does. There’s Dean at home, and Dean when they’re out, and Dean in the car, looking for all the world like he was born to drive it.

There are other things, too. Rusted-out road signs and dusty landmarks. Nature, on occasion, and any dogs he’s lucky enough to get to meet. Each and every photo he goes through- even the ones that don’t turn out; even the ones that are a blurred mess- are carefully labelled and dated and tucked away into a little shoebox he carries in his duffle. They’re all the memories he’s got preserved, and they’re the closest thing he has to a prized possession.

When he moves away to Stanford, he takes the box with him. For a while before he goes, he almost considers leaving it behind- making it a real clean break and separating himself from every aspect of his earlier life. But flipping through the photos, seeing secret smiles and soft fur and every the dingy motel rooms in which he grew up, he can’t imagine abandoning something so vital to his identity.

Sam doesn’t take any pictures for a long time after getting to school. He gets swept up in his studies and his social life, and it doesn’t seem quite so vital to record the little things. He meets Jessica, and they move in together, and it’s only when he’s organizinng his things that he rediscovers the camera.

“Hey, what’s that?” Jess asks him, and Sam’s left with a lump in his throat and no explanation to offer. She’s the one who finds the box of pictures, and he doesn’t stop her when she starts to go through them, making soft comments and little sounds of interest along the way.

He catches a glimpse of his big brother and he looks away, swallowing hard.

Jess is the first photo he takes here, and she fits in right along with Dean and the rest in his little box. The rest of them go in a new box, for his new friends in his new life, and he doesn’t look at the old ones again until a demon and a fire take everything else away.

Memories are too delicate to be preserved in paper and ink, but Sam clings to them as tight as he can, all the same. He doesn’t know how much more he can bear to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	18. Two-Hundred Sixty-Two: Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘hell cuts deep,’ they’ll tell you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk. Self-harm.

‘hell cuts deep,’ they’ll tell you.  
'hell burrows its way into your skin-  
right deep into your body where you’re softest  
and it will carve those parts out and leave you empty.’  
they’ll tell you lots of things about hell  
and about the ways it will fuck you-  
except for the parts they don’t tell you  
like the way it seeps into your veins  
and pumps through your heart   
hidden with every other drop of blood that lives there.

-

hell flows out of every messy wound, these days.  
every cut and slice and rough abrasion-  
sometimes, you can even see hell  
the way it gathers up under your skin in a festering smear  
of black-and-blue.  
hell leaves its marks even above the ground  
because what they don’t tell you is that it’s there forever  
once it digs its claws into your soul.

-

hell shows itself when you cause the hurt, too.  
hurting others, mostly- killing for revenge and righteousness  
and every mumbled excuse that comes between,  
and hurting yourself, too.  
accidents that turn into acute flicks of a blade  
because a part of you needs to see it again-  
needs to see that little crimson-tinged piece of hell  
to remind yourself of your own reality.

-

hell may still run through your veins  
and clog your chest  
and make it hard to breathe between those moments when you’re real-  
but hell is not here.  
hell may be inside you,  
but you’ve escaped.  
-  
you’re free.

(except for the parts of you that will never be free again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	19. Two-Hundred Sixty-Three: Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean, kiddo- c'mon, buddy. You’ve gotta try to sleep for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super emo about John trying so, so hard to take care of his babies after losing Mary. I just. u GH
> 
> Prompted from Sing Me to Sleep.

“Dean, kiddo- c'mon, buddy. You’ve gotta try to sleep for me.”

John’s tried everything he can think of, every trick in the book, every different combination of blankets and pillows and letting the kid into his own bed, but since the fire- since the fire, Dean can’t sleep. Not until he’s crying with exhaustion and passes out because he can’t keep his eyes open anymore, and it’s- hell; it’s hurting all of them. Sammy can’t settle while his brother is so distressed, and John’s been so damn worried about his eldest that he hasn’t slept for more than a few hours in the weeks since it’s started.

He doesn’t blame Dean for a second- kid just lost his mom and his home, no matter how bad John doesn’t want to think about it- but it’s got to stop. Little guy won’t make it much longer like this.

Dean’s eyes are bruised purple with exhaustion, and it’s obvious that he’s absolutely miserable, wrapped up in a blanket on top of his favourite pyjamas like it’s going to help. He sniffles and rubs at his nose and John prays he isn’t getting sick, too. “M'tired, Daddy.”

“I know.” John pushes his fingers through Dean’s hair, gently urging him to lay down. Maybe tonight it’ll just- happen, he tries to convince himself, and as hopeless as it seems, he’s got nothing else left. “Is there anything I can do? You want a glass of milk, or… or some music or something?”

Dean gets all quiet, then, and John holds his breath. Please, God, let there be something. He can’t watch his little boy hurt like this anymore.

His response comes so quiet that John almost thinks he’s imagined it, at first. Dean doesn’t look at him when he whispers, fingers curled tight in his blanket.

“Momma always sings t'me.”

John thinks maybe his heart breaks in two right then and there, and it takes a long moment before he’s able to speak past the lump in his throat. “You want me to sing to you, kiddo?”

Dean’s eyes are big as dinner plates, and he nods real slow, pulling his blanket up a little higher. John closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath.

Mary had always loved to sing.

“Sing me to sleep,” he murmurs. “Sing me to sleep. I’m tired, and I… want to go to bed…”

His voice is too low and too raspy, rough with grief and age and disuse. Nothing’s been worth singing about since losing his wife, but this- now, Dean’s eyelids are drooping and he’s snuggled down a little more and maybe it’s starting to work.

“…and then leave me alone.”

He drops to a whisper near the end because Dean’s breathing soft and steady and John thinks he could cry. Both his boys are asleep, Sam safe and sound in the little fold-out crib from the Salvation Army, and Dean curled up in the big king bed with his lips parted and his entire body relaxed, getting the rest he so desperately needs.

Slowly, John lays down beside him, and he closes his eyes, exhaling instead of crying because he needs to stay strong for what’s left of his family. Dean isn’t the only one who needs sleep, and John’s got work to do tomorrow.

He goes quick, but even through the night, his chest aches with how deeply he misses her. Mary had never needed to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	20. Two-Hundred Sixty-Four: Ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it really comes down to it, Dean thinks that he probably spends too much time fucking everything up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted from Little Lion Man. "I really fucked it up this time / Didn't I, my dear?"

When it really comes down to it, Dean thinks that he probably spends too much time fucking everything up.

He’ll look at his life, sometimes, and realize that- that he can’t really touch anything without ruining it. Soiling it it. Realize that everyone around him dies, or- or worse, even, and that he can’t save them. That he fails to save them; fails to protect his family and his friends when they need him most.

What’s worse, though, is that no one ever really holds him accountable.

Some do. Bad guys; angels and demons and Men of Letters who think it’s their place to play judge and jury in the world of the supernatural. Monsters who try to hurt him. But no one that matters ever holds onto it, and it- it’s fucking terrible. Here he is causing so much pain and destruction and grief, and no one will even fucking tell him so, and he-

He doesn’t know what to do with it.

Sam is the worst of all, though. Sam’s the one he hurts the most, and Sam’s the one who always, unfailingly, forgives him, maybe for things that should never be forgiven to begin with. Things that no person should ever do to their brother, but he- he does them, anyways. Does them because he’s got some twisted sense of duty and this stupid fucking dependence on his other half staying alive, and he can’t just-

He can’t let that go.

So it hurts when Sam lashes out. It hurts bad when Sam tells him he’s done something wrong; that he’s lost the privilege to call him “brother.” That maybe there’s no fixing things between them, not ever, and that he’s finally crossed the fucking line.

It hurts, but it’s good, too. Good to finally have someone reflect the hatred that he feels for himself and validate it, too. Remind him that he’s just as low and toxic and fucking worthless as he always knew himself to be.

But then there’s the part where Sam always, always forgives him, and that-

That’s the hardest part of all, because Dean doesn’t want to be forgiven. The selfish part of him does; wants his little brother to keep looking up to him, and keep loving him, and keep wanting him there, but the part that’s right- the part he should listen to for everyone’s good, he thinks- that part knows he doesn’t deserve it.

He doesn’t fucking deserve it.


	21. Two-Hundred Sixty-Five: Cleaning Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting Sam cleaned up is slow going, and it’s quiet work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Sam's rescue from the BMOL. Soft.

Getting Sam cleaned up is slow going, and it’s quiet work. Neither of them speak, both working through their own thoughts and content in the silence and the simple reality of being together and being somewhere safe, and Dean’s entirely happy for it to stay that way.

It’s cuts and bruises on the surface, mostly, and a lot of trauma piled up on top of a foundation of nothing but that’s going to be a little harder to heal. It’s a longer-term project than the bandages and creams he uses for everything else, and with the way Sam’s sitting still for him- well, maybe it’ll be doable. It’s all Dean needs to know; that they’ll be able to tackle this eventually.

Last thing he’s got to do are Sam’s feet; still bare from the moment they escaped. Not nearly as bad as the rest of him, really, with just a couple cuts that Dean’s careful to patch up. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him as he does it, and when he’s just about done- well, he can’t help but get a little sappy with it.

“Here, hold on,” he murmurs, and squeeze Sam’s uninjured knee as he stands. His brother looks confused, but Dean doesn’t explain as he steps towards his own dresser where they’re settled in his bedroom. He opens the top drawer and spends a moment rustling around before he finds them, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips before returning to Sam.

“Figure you should take it easy for a while, so…” The socks he presents had been a bit of an impulse buy- just something silly he’d wanted in a spur-of-the-moment thing. They’re absurdly soft to the touch, warm and fluffy the way nothing else he owns has ever been. “Just… something comfortable. Don’t laugh.”

Sam’s heeding his words or just doesn’t have anything to say, so Dean crouches down once more and takes one of Sam’s feet in his hand before carefully tugging the sock onto it, covering up the bandages before repeating the action with the other foot. When he finally looks up, Sam’s fighting a smile, and as weary as he looks…

“You’re an idiot,” Sam murmurs fondly, and his toes curl a bit in Dean’s hand, and Dean can’t help but crack a smile.

Healing always comes in little steps, and maybe this is the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	22. Two-Hundred Sixty-Six: Imitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Protect Sammy.
> 
> Take care of Sammy.
> 
> Be brave for Sammy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil angsty thing.

_Protect Sammy._

_Take care of Sammy._

_Be brave for Sammy._

Dean doesn’t know how to be brave. He doesn’t know very much about being brave at all- ‘course there’s the stories with the knights saving princesses from dragons, and the cowboys who take down bandits to protect towns in the Old West, but Dean doesn’t… Dean can’t be like those people. They’re just stories, and he isn’t a knight or a cowboy. They’re far-away lands of fantasy, untouchable after the world’s been broken down into displacement and responsibility and fear.

He doesn’t know how to be brave the way those people are. Those stories. Those characters.

But- but there’s still his dad.

His dad’s real brave. He fights monsters, like a real-life hero, and does everything to keep him and Sammy safe. He isn’t scared of anything,  _ever_ , even when it’s dark and quiet in the middle of the night and Dean needs to crawl into his bed to feel safe. He’s brave 'cause he needs to be brave, Dean thinks, and he’s the bravest person in the world.

And Dean starts to think that maybe- maybe, if he’s just like his dad, then maybe he’ll be brave, too.

The first thing he tries is his dad’s music, and that’s when he decides he loves classic rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	23. Two-Hundred Sixty-Seven: Jacket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Isn’t that thing a little big on you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really emo about Dean wearing his dad's jacket.

“Isn’t that thing a little big on you?”

Sam sounds a little wary and a little tentative, and Dean burrows his hands a little deeper in his pockets, defiant and looking away. The jacket still smells like Dad, underneath the worn leather scent, and a tiny, childish part of him never wants to take it off, even if he’s too old now to reasonably think it’ll keep him safe.

That’s how it felt the first time John draped it over his shoulders, cold and shivering after an impromptu trip into a lake monster’s domain. It’d been twice his size back then, just a scrawny teenager who didn’t have any place on the hunt to begin with, but-

_“Good job, kid.” A heavy hand on his shoulder, still warm even through the jacket, that’d managed to ease Dean’s shivering. “There might be hope for you yet.”_

_Dean had huffed a little in surprise, practically disappearing in the jacket’s bulk and looking up at his dad like a drowned kitten someone had left in a cardboard box, only to be fished out of the river by some kind soul. “S'yours.”_

_“Yours now.” And it hadn’t been easy to get smiles out of him on the job, but he- he’d smiled, then, just a little. Real soft. “You’ll grow into it.”_

Dean swallows hard and curls his shoulders inwards, avoiding his brother even as he keeps his eyes on the funeral pyre.

“Shut up.”

He never did get big enough to wear it the way his dad did, but there’s no way in hell he’s letting it go.

It’s not like he’s got a whole lot else left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	24. Two-Hundred Sixty-Eight: Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “C’mon, don’t cry,” Sam murmurs, fingertips all baby-smooth and gentle as he strokes them down the curve of the girl’s cheek. “Would you believe me if I said that this hurts me just as it hurts you?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serial killer AU and Wincest. Just brought on from listening to a bunch of nightcore.

“C’mon, don’t cry,” Sam murmurs, fingertips all baby-smooth and gentle as he strokes them down the curve of the girl’s cheek. “Would you believe me if I said that this hurts me just as it hurts you?“

They both know he’s lying, but it’s fun to pretend and watch the way she begs.

She looks pretty in red, but then, they all do.

Dean looks prettiest, though; crimson smeared on his lips where they part in a smile; where he whispers like he’s telling a secret just for the two of them.

"Jealous, sweetheart?” he’ll ask like they haven’t played this game before, and that’s always when Sam lets his big brother feel his teeth, just for the way Dean laughs and pulls him closer. “Gonna mark me up?”

Dean’s is the blood that tastes the way it’s supposed to, too, and Sam isn’t shy about taking what he wants, blood blood blood on his hands and on the tip of his tongue and smeared on Dean’s throat. Messy and vital and fucking perfect and Christ; Sam can’t get enough.

“Goddamn beautiful, baby,” Dean mumbles into his hair, and Sam laves his tongue over freckled skin and cleans up his mess. “My pretty little psycho.”

Dean can call him whatever the fuck he wants, s'long as he knows he only belongs to Sam. The girls still need to learn, maybe, but that’s where Sam comes in.

Sam’s good at teaching them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	25. Two-Hundred Sixty-Nine: Frozen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a whole lot of reasons to hate himself, but everything he’s done in Hell has recently come to top the list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Hell, Dean can't bring himself to hurt anyone or anything. It's fucking him up.

Dean has a whole lot of reasons to hate himself, but everything he’s done in Hell has recently come to top the list.

It’s not that he should be surprised, really; he’s always know that he was a monster. A mindless soldier, ready to kill on command with no questions asked, but now it’s- it’s different, now, with forty years in the Pit under his belt and ten of them spent with a blade in his hand, because everything is clear but nothing makes sense.

Dean likes hurting people. Fuck; he learned to enjoy it. Ten years of being Alastair’s favourite apprentice and he’s- maybe a shrink would call it a defence mechanism. Finding some twisted pleasure out of his own torture, and using it to survive, but it’s.

He hates it.

“Hey,” Sam murmurs, too soft and too careful like he’s handling spun glass and Dean wants to scream. Sam’s already patched him up, too, gashes across his chest that are fractions of inches from being fatal. “What happened back there?”

Already a lifetime’s worth of blood on his hands and God; Dean can’t make himself go any further, but.

He shrugs and winces and avoids his brother’s eyes. He can’t stand the pity he knows he’ll find there. “Froze up. S'nothing.”

Monsters and demons alike an Dean can’t bear to lay a fucking finger on them. Not to save his own life. Couldn’t make himself move out of the werewolf’s way because that meant pulling the trigger, but he.

It went after Sam, next. Turned on his brother and just about tore his throat out until Dean iced it.

Sam sighs, and Dean can tell that he wants to say more, but not what. He can’t read Sam these days. Not the way he used to. Forty years apart does a number on a relationship. “Alright, Dean.”

He could pull the trigger for Sammy. Couldn’t save himself worth a damn, but when it came to protecting his brother…

Dean’s learned to enjoy hurting people, and he’s learned to hate himself for it. Sam’s always been the exception that makes the rule, and Dean figures he can ignore his own if it means keeping Sam safe.

Sam always comes first, everything else be damned. That much, at least, hasn’t changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	26. Two-Hundred Seventy: Mirro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Dean thinks he’s more like a mirror than a person- a mere reflection of whoever is standing closest; flat and empty upon closer inspection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a lot of feelings about Dean moulding himself to different expectations.

Sometimes, Dean thinks he’s more like a mirror than a person- a mere reflection of whoever is standing closest; flat and empty upon closer inspection. There’s not as much substance to him as there is a certain eagerness to please, and the only way he knows how is to give just exactly what he gets.

For his father, he is a  _soldier_. Cold and hardened, primed to follow orders without question or hesitation. He is obedient, and he is search and destroy. He is a good son, and a better subordinate. He is John’s favourite, maybe, because he does what he is told, always seeking that scrap of praise, that fractional second of acknowledgement, that makes it all worthwhile.

For girls, he is a  _charmer_. Quick smiles and quicker wit, always ready with a compliment and a joke. He lets them take him home and take him apart, seeking the affection that he so desperately craves while his emotions stay locked away in a tiny, thorned box. Short nights turn into lifelong regrets, and he’s always left feeling a little emptier than before.

For the supernatural, he is a  _monster_. Ruthless with blade and bullet and brute strength, no thought behind his violence. He bathes in their blood and smiles like razor blades, heart pumping adrenaline through his veins as he hacks and slashes his way through their hoards without remorse. He doesn’t think, and he doesn’t feel. He is a machine.

For Sam, though-

For Sam, he is a  _brother_. Teasing and playing and growing, clinging to one another fiercely and without relent. They laugh and they scream and they break apart just as often as they fall back together, forever doomed to be one and the same.

For Sam, he is  _one half of a whole_. Incomplete without his other, hollow and searching for fulfilment that will never come. He is desperate, and he is alone, and without his brother, there is nothing left to be.

For Sam, he is a  _hero_. Eternally fighting to be as good as the kid thinks he is, fighting monsters and fighting demons and fighting every instinct in him that screams at him to hurt and hate and destroy. A desperate struggle against his own nature, because Sam is good and Dean just wants to be good enough.

Dean is a mirror, forever reflecting whoever stands close. Sam has always been the closest to him, though, and Sam is… Sam has always been everything. 

Others tend to come and go, leaving Dean with flickering impressions of who he’s supposed to be, but for Sam…

For Sam, Dean is  _everything._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	27. Two-Hundred Seventy-One: Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica is very careful, these days, because the absolute last thing she wants is to get caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SamJess with... some kind of monster!Jess. :>

Jessica is very careful, these days, because the absolute last thing she wants is to get caught.

She tears through the first few boys like tissue paper; Stanford is too easy a hunting ground and she is too good at what she does. Leaves them behind dazed and empty while she rides her high, always with the taste of copper at the back of her tongue and her body teeming with fresh adrenaline. She doesn’t know what to do with all the extra energy, for a while, and eventually starts running. No downside to staying in shape, and it helps work her through the rush.

The first few boys are easy, but the first few boys are also boring. Frat boys and jocks who drop to their knees like she’s the only deity they’ve ever known, and it’s almost pathetic enough to turn her away. Still, she’s hungry, and they’re offering, and it’s hard to turn down a free meal, but it doesn’t take long before she’s seeking something more. Something harder. A challenge.

Sam Winchester is a challenge. Sam Winchester is dangerous.

She smells it on him the very first time they meet and feels it in the callous on his hands. He’s six and a half feet of toned muscle wrapped up all quiet-soft, and it’s hard not to take him then and there, but then-

Careful. She needs to be careful, and by the time she gets Sam Winchester into her bed, it becomes more evident than ever.

He’s quiet, but there’s a sharpness to him that Jessica doesn’t usually attribute to humans. Something solid and quick and threatening that he keeps inside, she thinks, and it’s all the more intriguing when she finally manages to get close, watching how he comes apart and starts to reveal the animal he is inside.

There will be bruises in her skin shaped like his hands after he fucks her, and she smiles into his neck when she moves to sink her teeth into tender flesh.

They’ll both mark each other, like ownership. Possession. He doesn’t need to remember, and she likes him too much to leave him behind, anyways.

Maybe one day, she’ll even let him in on the secret, and besides- judging by the silver-salt-gunpowder she can smell in his apartment, he’s got a few of his own.

She’s always wanted a challenge, and she’s never met a hunter. Sam just happens to be the best of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	28. Two-Hundred Seventy-Two: Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jesus, Sam,” Dean mumbles, but Sam can barely hear him over the rushing of his own blood in his ears. “Careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... dumb and cracky and based on a post that was dumb and took itself too seriously. Uh. Imagine Sam was addicted to human blood or something.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean mumbles, but Sam can barely hear him over the rushing of his own blood in his ears. “Careful.”

Sam’s eyes are all for the gash he’s supposed to be patching up on his brother’s arm, though, the needle and thread unsteady in his trembling hands. The wound is still seeping blood, slow and lazy, and that’s where Sam’s eyes are fixed, the alluring crimson impossible to tear his eyes away from. He can smell it, too; the thick scent of copper heavy on the back of his tongue.

He’s had demons before. Demons with sulphur and power in their veins, but… they were wearing humans, right? They were just people, at he end of the day. And demons are so much harder to get ahold of than Dean, especially when his brother trusts him so much.

Sam’s been ignoring his urges for so long. Surely, he’s earned a little taste…?

“Hey, c'mon, let’s hurry it up, we’ve got places to-”

Dean stops allying abruptly as Sam leans forward and latches onto the wound, tongue probing carefully at torn skin. As expected, the copper-iron-blood taste is only intensified, and…

“Uh.” Dean sounds a little bit lost and a whole lot concerned. “You, uh… you doin’ okay there, kid?”

Sam blinks and slants a glance upwards to where his brother is staring at him, obviously baffled. Slowly, Sam licks a little more blood into his mouth before sitting up, one hand coming up to wipe at his lips casually. Dean’s still staring and Sam tries to smile pleasantly, like he didn’t just suckle at someone’s open wound.

“Saliva is a great disinfectant,” he says solemnly, and goes straight to stitching the skin back together. Dean has been stunned into speechlessness and Sam can’t help but be a little thankful.

Okay, so maybe he’ll stick to demons from now on. That’s probably for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	29. Two-Hundred Seventy-Three: Sleepy-Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s never this affectionate when he’s sober.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE for the softness that is Dean + morphine. God.

Dean’s never this affectionate when he’s sober. John can’t be bothered to hide his amusement as his eldest clings to him, mumbling something incoherent and probably sappy into his arm while he steers the both of them towards the room.

“M'sleepy,” Dean insists. “Gotta- gotta sleep. Nap time, Dad.”

“Can’t nap in the parking lot, champ.”

Dean’s good hand curls tight into John’s jacket, like he’s going to protest, maybe, and insist that he be allowed to try, but John just keeps hauling him along until they’re close enough to knock. Dean snuffles and when John glances at him, he’s closed his eyes. Got tossed around a little too hard by a poltergeist in the next town over and got his arm broken in three places, and as much as he hates bringing the boys to the hospital- too many paper trails to be left there- when his eyes drift to the cast and the sloppy little smiley face Dean’s already doodled there in his morphine-softened state, he can’t help but think this time was worth it.

Sam opens the door for them and he looks angry, already poised to start chewing them out before he spots his brother and his eyes go big and scared. John had left a message, if a short one- that they’d be a few hours longer, maybe, and not to worry about it too much- but maybe he should’ve given the kid a little more to work with.

“What happened?” Sam demands in a whisper-shout, even as John starts hauling Dean inside past him. Sam’s right behind them, though, shutting the door and then moving to hover and fuss around his brother. “Dean, are you okay? What happened?”

“Got broke,” Dean mumbles, and his hand loosens in John’s shirt in favour of grabbing for his little brother. John doesn’t let him go until they’re close enough to the bed that he won’t hit the floor. “S'all broke, Sammy. C'mere.”

John tries not to smile as Dean drags Sam in close with a surprising amount of strength, prompting a startled squeak out of Sam as he comes down on the bed next to Dean. Dean doesn’t waste any time in hugging him close, one-armed and sighing with content. “Nap.”

John meets his youngest’s eyes for a moment, confused and maybe a little grudgingly accepting. John isn’t the only one who doesn’t see this very often.

“Okay,” Sam sighs, finally turning back to his brother and apparently submitting to becoming a thirteen-year-old body pillow. “Nap time, Dean.”

Dean huffs and sniffles and his eyes are already closed. John catches his lips moving against his brother’s hair, and sees the way Sam blushes, after, and he holds in his own laughter again, turning away to go sit himself down for a well-deserved rest.

Not a whole lot to be happy about when a hunt goes this way, but it’s nice seeing Dean so sleepy-soft for now. It’s been too damn long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	30. Two-Hundred Seventy-Four: Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s getting easier to move around these days, as Mary works her way through the second trimester of her pregnancy, so she’s been working her way back up to normal housework again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a horrifying story about a little girl predicting her mom having a miscarriage.
> 
> So, uh. TW for miscarriage and... MCD? I guess?

It’s getting easier to move around these days, as Mary works her way through the second trimester of her pregnancy, so she’s been working her way back up to normal housework again. Of course John tries to get her to relax, and Dean’s at her heels no matter what she does, but she can’t help but need to keep active. It’s never felt right to sit idly while she could be doing something useful, instead, and even with the ever-growing back pain that comes with her increased circumference, she isn’t going to let this be any different.

Dean’s been getting clingier, too, and she suspects that it’s both excitement about his new little sibling and concern that he will no longer have a complete monopoly on his parents’ attention. She’s been trying to accommodate him and give him these last few months of being her one and only little angel, and it seems to calm him down when he’s allowed to listen to her belly, apparently intent on being the first one to meet the baby when they’re ready to show up.

This is one of those times. Mary’s already set the water to boil, and now she’s settled down in one of the kitchen chairs, smiling down at Dean as he watches her belly intently. It’s getting harder to take him up into her lap these days, but she does her best all the same as he climbs up onto her.

“Be gentle, sweetie,” she reminds him the way she always does, and he nods dutifully as he gets himself settled. One little hand on the curve of her belly and then he leans in real close to rest his ear against it, brow furrowed as he concentrates.

Usually Mary just rubs his back while she does this, content to let him listen as long as it takes to satisfy his curiosity, but just as her fingertips make contact he’s making a little whimpering sound, something confused and distressed. She pulls her hand away quickly, afraid she’s hurt him somehow- maybe she touched a bruise she doesn’t know about?- but then he’s looking at her, something lost in his big green eyes and something haunted that feels like it’s gripping Mary’s lungs with ice.

“Little brother’s sick,” he tells her sadly, his gaze dropping back to her belly a moment later. He doesn’t stay long, slipping out of her lap and hurrying off towards the living room where he must’ve left his toys, but Mary- Mary’s left shaken.

They don’t know the baby’s sex yet. They certainly haven’t told Dean that he’s got a little brother on the way, and he shouldn’t…

She tries to breathe through it and move on, because stress is bad for the baby. She tries to go back to cooking, but Dean’s words haunt her for hours and leave her insomniatic, staring up at the ceiling with her heart in her throat and dread creeping up her spine.

The miscarriage she suffers three days later is painful and bloody, and she’s left choking on her own sobs while John holds her close and whispers into her hair, and while Dean watches from the hospital room’s door with eyes that are big and sad and knowing.

Mary salts every entrance to the house that night and sleeps with her little angel in her arms. It’s the only way she knows how to chase away the demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


End file.
